


Fairy Tales of Yesterday (Grow But Never Die)

by zoom



Category: Hijack - Fandom, How to Train Your Dragon (2010), Rise of the Guardians (2012), frostcup - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Moulin Rouge! Fusion, Alternate Universe - Theatre, M/M, Prostitution, dance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-08 00:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoom/pseuds/zoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HIJACK: Moulin Rouge!AU</p><p>"Hiccup's desire to <i>know</i> bloomed from the same root as Jack's desire to <i>feel</i>. It was the impassioned pursuit of <i>philosophical</i> desire that they were ever led by...<br/>And it was leading them both, with growing speed and intensity, towards one another."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from _The Show Must Go On_ by Queen.
> 
> This is a take on the _Moulin Rouge!_ story with men, and a somewhat more period presentation than the film, aaaand the characters are really different so. Trying to put Hijack into the basic plot so lots of changes from the original. ._.

            Henrik Horatio Haddock III was a name soon to be found in every gentleman's private library, a name men of science would recognize as imminently as they would any giant of psychological discovery, a name lain out in gold print beneath the title of his first book - which he had yet to quite decide upon.

            He was not _yet_ the acclaimed scientist the young Swedish medical student hoped to become. Presently, he was in fact a scattered mess of scribbled notes and ever changing outlines, dwindling what little was now left of his early-claimed inheritance in a small, sparse flat in Paris.

            For where else is one to go when conducting a study on the singular human emotion most sung of, most desired and most feared, than the _City of Love_? 

            Young Haddock—known to his family as Hiccup, for his hopeless lack of grace—had long lost track of the reddish bangs that swayed into his eye line, and of the thick locks that ran down his neck, not long enough to tie, and not tame enough to stay still and slick as a gentleman's coiffure ought. The terrible fact of the matter was, despite being of noble, prestigious heritage, in neither appearance nor manner was Hiccup even slightly the posh, refined man of culture his family intended him to be. His attention quickly strayed from the monotonous _politesse_ at dinner parties, and his thoughtlessly frank, cutting remarks, in the midst of gaudy drivel over a game of bridge, were oft met with offended scowls and judging silence.

            Perhaps worst of all, the boy's inclination towards the sciences led him to dirty his best suits in pursuit of a colony of beetles, or to miss social outings in the clutches of a textbook on human anatomy, or even to throw his fortune into a German education, with a focus on—of all unfathomable things—that so called "science" known as _psychology_.

            Yet, a fledgling that wishes to fly cannot long be held back in his nest. Sooner or later he will leap - and most likely fall, though there is hope he will learn to open his wings before his daring venture meets a gruesome end. 

            Hiccup's current predicament was not for lack of ambition or courage. It was one small technical problem, really. 

            Around his little wooden desk, torn and crumpled pages lay with rejected titles: _The Physiological Implications of Romantic L_ \- no, no, far too lifeless. _Love and Passion, Pretenses or Vital to Human Existence?_ \- oh heavens, this was _science_ , not philosophy! _The Love Delusion_ \- but that would presuppose his findings favor love as an _illusory_ rather than _tangible_ concept, when his observations had only barely begun and—

            The young man crumpled and dropped away another page. With a whistling sigh from his wide, round nose, Hiccup lay his cheek down against his folded arm despondently. 

            Love was an idea that fascinated him. It wasn't one he personally fancied or strove to experience, only its _effects_ and _reputation_ captivated the student endlessly. So many people believed in this one, transcendent notion that somewhere, someone waited to know you, to make themselves known, and thereafter shed all the rest of your life with a bliss comparative only to the divine. 

            Across class and land, it was an almost mythological belief, this _fixation_ on a destined entwining of souls. Illogical and juvenile though it was, still it had an undeniable kind of poetry to it.

            Was it really a tall tale humankind had yet to grow out of, or was there merit to this collective fantasy? There were the obvious advantages of encouraging reproduction and idolizing marriage, a societal symbol of maturity and freedom from parental tyranny. But beyond that, was all this talk of quickening heartbeats and swelling chests any more than a simple, biological phenomenon among potential mates? A practical physical attachment romanticized by overactive imaginations, an indulgence enabled by societal ideals?

            Or was it truly the unique, transformative experience it was said to be?

            Hiccup knocked his pen lightly away from him, watching it roll slowly around the desk surface.

            The problem was, he didn't really _know_. He _couldn't_ know, for all his knowledge and assumptions were based solely on second-hand observations!

            How could he thoroughly examine an experience he himself had never faced?

            Years later, Hiccup would still never entertain the unfounded suggestion of "fate" commandeering us all. But even he would understand how the universe sometimes bends and turns just enough to yield a new path in life's wilderness. And if you take it, it may lead you from muddled woods to a clear valley, from desert thoughts to an oasis of inspiration - which may then fade as a mirage in youth's quenchless sorrow.

            Whatever seems faraway or all too improbable may yet come to pass, beginning with one footstep, and then another, onto the new road offered you by the ever-shifting universe.

            This story's first step begins with an acting troupe. 

            With his diminished finances, the young scientist was forced to seek out employment. Had he swallowed pride and presumption, and given his father the chance to support him in his passionate research, perhaps Lord Haddock might have surprised him. Perhaps no need would have arisen to find work, and he never would have approached the actors who rehearsed in the flat below his.

            Their impassioned cries and songs awoke him in the night and jostled him in the day, much to the boy's grumbling displeasure. When he asked that they kindly keep the ruckus down, it was revealed that these were players without a _play_. They practiced impromptu battle sequences and dramatic death scenes, but there was no plot to speak of, no pre-written lines or message beyond a vague preoccupation with glory and war.

            Hiccup had never tried at being a playwright before, but a competent writer and a ready risk-taker he _was_. So when it was made clear that the troupe was in need of a script, and he in need of rent, a deal was promptly made.

            A rudimentary outline was constructed, characters and plot points determined, and soon the matter of a performance space and patrons arose.

            "The Moulin Rouge," said the most frightening actress, who lived for dying speeches and staged—but alarmingly _fierce_ —duels. She shoved a yellow bang out of her robin egg eyes. "We'll rake in a pretty sum if _that_ is our venue."

            And so, Hiccup found himself accompanied by the actress and a portly blond actor, waiting to be seated at the Moulin Rouge, Paris' center of nighttime fun and flash.


	2. Act I., Scene 1

            The theater doors opened for Hiccup like the gateway to a palace. Inside was a foreign, _lewd_ culture the son of a gentleman had no business entering. While the boy's deep green stare past the threshold grew apprehensive, as a man looking into the open jaws of a wild beast, the actress roughly took his arm and nigh _dragged_ him in.

            "The one who must hear us out is the manager," explained the rotund actor at Hiccup's other side - more of an analytical sort of fellow, enamored of literary classics, than a deft performer. Yet he always pulled through in his roles with surprising gusto, despite his usual squeakish, timid tone. "If North approves of the production, he may help us procure a patron."

            The crowds, seas of men in black suits and hats, lechers in the guise of gentility, pushed and jabbed to reach front row. Girls in vibrant skirts kicked out their fishnet-bow heels and swished their petticoats up above their frilly undergarments. Hiccup was attempting to fix his flustered gaze anywhere but the stage.

            "As I understand it," continued the actor, "the easiest route to North is through his favorite dancer. A second cousin or some such, sources say, though it's supposed that may be fabricated to hide an _affair_." The actor hissed the last word with the excited hush of a schoolboy passing along naughty secrets. "It's very common of managers in such establishments to take advantage. Did you know in Dublin, there was once a—"

            "Stick to the point, Fishlegs," cut in the actress tersely. Fishlegs, the stage name of one Fitzgerald Ingerman, sheepishly halted his habitual straying from the topic at hand.

            "Oh um, quite," he mumbled as they reached their reserved table at last. The actor pulled out a chair for the glowering woman, who was towing Hiccup to his own seat. She sat him down with a forceful shove on his shoulders, then took the third seat, leaving Fishlegs with no choice but to take the one he'd needlessly offered to her. "I'll let you know which dancer it is you're to impress, Hiccup. If there's a chance, I'll speak first, yes?" 

            Long having regretted divulging his peculiar nickname to the troupe, Hiccup fiddled with the thin handle of a wineglass set at their table. "Why exactly am _I_ needed for this—" A particularly risqué hip motion on stage deepened the red in Hiccup's cheeks. "...t-this excursion?" 

            The actress leaned forward, curls falling over a bare shoulder. Her pale blue dress, though somewhat plain, clung snugly to the fit physique she maintained, and offered a little more apparent volume to otherwise rather subtle curves. "The play is yours, _Monsieur Writer_ ," she said with some bite. There was scarcely ever trust in her tone whenever she addressed the new addition to their troupe. It was she who managed the stage blocking and choreographed fights, she who led her troupe in their pretend battles. And she was not so keen to relinquish her authority to this new playwright's far too aimless direction. "If you've any pride in your art at all, you will defend and proclaim it!"

            "But I'm not a _performer_!" protested the young student, voice rising in pitch as the ladies on stage began parading into the audience, accepting the most un-Christian attentions from their fans. "M-mightn’t it be much preferable if _you_ pitched the play in my stead, Astrid?"

            "I don't," said the woman, "understand it." She sat up straight, delivering a cool, contemptuous glare at Hiccup. "And I don't perform what I do not _understand_." 

            Astrid made it quite clear by her sharp eyes and stiff posture, that "understand" in fact meant "like." And until she could be convinced otherwise, Hiccup was quite on his own in this.

            The music never stopped, always peppy and fast, accented with stomping heels and sweeping toes. Hiccup had begun to notice, as his eyes grew bold enough to rise to the stage more and more, the ladies were indeed _dancing_. It wasn't merely an incomprehensible jumble of lewd gestures, but actual steps and turns, coordinated and executed with moderate grace. Not all were in perfect synchronization, and some stumbled or kicked at the wrong times. But there was at the very least the _semblance_ of a legitimate performance. 

            As more ladies abandoned the stage to roam the audience—the lesser dancers, Hiccup noted—more performers began to fill the spaces - _men_.

            Well-dressed young men, in dark hats and polished shoes, each took hold of a dancing woman, and began to spin her and lead her all around the stage. The steps all still carried a hint of perverse mischief, but they grew a little more complex, capable pairs of feet moving faster and smoother on the hard wood. 

            In the center of the dancing pairs, a blonde, quite young-looking damsel was lowered in by a cord from the theater ceiling, arm extended and sweet grin wide as the crowd began shouting its praise.

            "Star's arrived," Astrid grumbled with an unpleasant expression.

            "Actually, they call her the Little Flower!" provided Fishlegs cheerfully, completely missing his coworker's disdain. "Quite beloved here, though some call her the Cherry Blossom for... well, for obvious reasons, I suppose!" the actor finished with a blush.

            Hiccup didn't catch the drift, not quite recognizing the very specific appeal of such a youthful little woman with a chaste smile, in her purple bodice gown and pink necktie. Sometimes it is the show of _innocence_ , even in the context of such open sensuality, that riles blood up all the more. And a reputation of untouchable virginity only feeds the hunger in some wanton bellies.

             The damsel began to sing, some bright, lively tune that onlookers clapped along to. She danced quite prettily, passing herself from partner to partner.

            "Is she the favorite, then?" Hiccup wondered aloud. The young lady was certainly easy on the eyes, and her voice, though a bit small, had a delicate charm.

            "Oh no, you should very soon see-"

            In the midst of Fishlegs' response, there was a sudden pause in the song. The Flower turned her pretty smile to stage right, where brusque, swift taps and shuffles of toe and heel were resonating in the abrupt quiet. It sounded like faster and more elaborate footwork than any yet. The star held out her hand, and out from behind the side curtain danced a tuxedoed figure. Every tap-accented glide and sweep across the stage looked like a step taken on air, every motion the very _definition_ of athletic grace. The dancer was slender and tall, face partly hidden under the shadow of his down-tucked hat, held in place with a white-gloved hand. In his other hand was a long wooden cane. And his arms, his legs, the slant of his back and twist of his waist all seemed to constantly shift with uncommon fluidity.

             When he reached the Flower, the dancer finally looked up. There was a cocksure smile and liquid blue eyes, and in both shined the brightest, sincerest delight.

            " _There_ he is," pointed out Fishlegs, while the crowd applauded the newcomer with fond familiarity.

            Hiccup could reply with nothing but a distracted, "Oh..." 

            The young Swede's dappled head had never been much for turning sharply towards a passing damsel, nor were his lungs very inclined to suddenly stopper at a pretty, blooming face. As the reader must recall, despite the aspiring scientist's intrigue towards love and attraction, neither had quite managed to snare him yet. Nor would they ever, he'd sometimes supposed. It was even possible that his draw to the topic in the first place came out of being such a _stranger_ to it.

            An exception to this was perhaps the woman sitting stiffly to his left. Whenever he watched her perform, a very little _taste_ of the enamored throes he'd only read of struck Hiccup. Her beauty hadn't caught his heart's notice, but her _passion_ , the skillful execution of her fight scenes and the ferocious kick to her speeches, _that_ drew a curious tremor up his spine and captivated his wide green eyes. 

            But the new sensation, coaxed out not by body or face, but the show of _talent_ and _conviction_ , was never allowed to grow past admiration. The actress appealed to him, but outside of performances she offered him only the image of a cold, imposing lady whose unhesitating grip rivaled any soldier's... 

            On stage, the blue-eyed dancer carried on his coattails an almost unearthly energy, _brimmed_ with it from toe to head. As the music picked back up, the Flower started singing again at her new partner's side. And they danced. 

            She would give a gesture. He would repeat it. They'd do it again in unison. He'd twirl her and she'd shimmy from him, while she sang on and he spun and tapped up a storm. An infectious glee followed his every step, little laughs escaping him sometimes, like he was having the time of his life. He plucked off his hat, a shocking splay of white locks falling out from under the cap rim. The dark hat was rolled along his shoulder and bopped up on an elbow, caught on the tip of his cane and then returned to his head with apparent ease. 

            Competing with the ladies for the audience's attention was no small task. Though the dancer's obvious skill caught most eyes for at least a spell, they were still more drawn to feminine legs and jiggling, frill-framed chests. Of course, not _all_ the eager gazes preferred the girls to the lithe male bodies on the stage. But even the, shall we say, _strait and narrow_ of the onlookers had to notice the young dancer when the music built to a climax.

            He pulled the gloves off with his teeth, and threw them and then his cane to the Flower's open hands, winking. Next he picked up a heel and yanked off his shoe, collecting the other one with it and pitching them with a flourish behind the curtain. Then the dancer tossed his hat up in the air, and abruptly sprang back on his hands, landing smoothly on his bare feet again in time to catch the still airborne hat. While the damsel warbled ecstatically, hoisted up on the shoulders of the other men, the prized dancer pulled off more showy, acrobatic leaps in the background. 

            The audience clapped and hollered, fantasy and entertainment delivered to them all in one go. (Astrid's stingy approval was perhaps the only one the display did not acquire, but then that would be one hard-earned feat indeed.) Lights flashed, and other voices joined the last chorus - even the audience knew the words by now, and drunkenly wailed along to them. And although one skinny Swedish youth still refrained from partaking in the audience-wide jubilee, his gaping half-smile was unbreakably fixed on the stage.

            _Love at first sight_ is a phrase oft misused and misunderstood. Reason would seem to defy it, history tends to disprove it. But when one applies a purely literal sense to any emblem of romance, its logic cannot hold. 

            It is not fully blossomed love, but the _seed_ of love that may begin its sprouting at a single glance. None can say for certain how fast, or how strong, or even _if_ it may grow, only that it _may_ , that now the sapling chance has anchored its roots in a fertile heart.

            Without one exchanged word, the beginnings of a physical or ideological attachment may still stake its claim. And as suddenly as the tides of attraction may draw one human in to another, with all the knee-knocking power of that oceanic sweep over shore, it may just as soon pull away again, leaving supple sands of potential to dry.

            But in the moment of the highest tide, the sharpest wind, the gravest quake in the ground or bellow in the clouds, there is no telling what is next to come. There is only that moment, and its unforeseeable end. An eternity passes when the future is unknown, and the present is wrought with sudden intensity.

            So we call it love, before we know for certain _what_ it is, because whatever it be, it shakes and tosses and drowns us. Because even the dawning _potential_ to love may carry power beyond any its bearer has ever yet known. 

            And even a man of jaded rationality may stumble into a dreamlike wonder.

            The song was coming to an apparent end. In a last mad series of turns and steps, the blue-eyed dancer performed his finale moves with a childishly bright grin. But in the midst of one of the turns, the grin suddenly slipped. Sparkly eyes turned blank, and there was a swaying pause in the steps. Then the dancer abruptly dropped, straight back onto the stage floor, hat rolling slowly from a splayed body.

            There was only a brief moment of confusion and panic among some of onlookers, before others assuaged them with cheers, and the other performers barely shifted their flashy smiles as though nothing unusual in the least had occurred. It could naturally then be assumed that the fall was only part of the performance, an effectively dramatic closure to a most entertaining show. And as one of the curtains closed over the lying dancer, another number already kicking up, no mishaps could be long guessed at.

            So there was nothing to falter the very first flickers of young love in a freckly writer's skipping heart.


	3. Act I., Scene 2

            "Jack! _Jack_! God's bloody sakes, _Jack_!"

            In the darkness, there were only distant voices, and the scraping touch of arms from which his heavy limbs dangled listlessly.

            "Put on table, here."

            "Come on, damn _show pony_ , snap out of it..."

            "Doctor coming, just give minute."

            A palm lightly slapped his cheek. It did nothing to stir him from sickly slumber. On the voices jabbered, on the touches moved, on and on without a reactive sound or twitch from a pale, slack body.

            In his head, Jackson Overland was rolling in snow, a cloak-bundled child in his arms and her laughter in his ears. They made angels in the white powder, and he let her slap tiny mitten-fulls of it on a snowman's oversized head.

            He looked like she did in the dream, brown hair and brown eyes like their mother. He wasn't unnaturally colored with sun-sensitive skin and bizarre albino curls, white as the dream snow he played in with his sister.

            "Ah, Doctor, please to come!"

            "Been down nearin' on an hour, now..."

            Small, small hands brushed the cold sweat from under white bangs. A few more examining pats later, something was slipped under the unconscious man's nostrils.

            He jolted.

            There was no awakeness in his eyes when they opened, slitted and blinking. A gasp, a cough, and the vacant blue gaze threatened to fall shut again. Breath was uneven and laboring, a horrible _agony_ in his chest forcing him halfway back into his dream.

            His worn face cracked a little smile at the plump silhouette of a small man above him, rimmed with golden lamplight. And he started whispering into his sister's absent ear,

            " _The Sandman's coming, in his train of cars_..."

            "Jack? What's he sayin'?"

            His sister's giggle drowned the voices around the table. So he held her close, and told the child her favorite rhyme.

            " _With moonbeam windows, and with wheels of stars._ "

            He spoke quietly, because it was evening and she must sleep soon.

            " _So hush, you little ones... and have no fear..._ "

            "...Is delirium. Talking nonsense, pay no heed."

            He spoke quietly, because he was so tired from a day of play... and he too must sleep soon...

            " _The man-in-the-moon... he is... the engineer..._ "

            A little palm cupped under the back of his neck, propping his head up. Some thick, pungent liquid met his lips, sliding down his throat at the silhouetted figure's urging.

            The rambling ceased. Longish lashes batted a few more times over pale eyes, and the man's chest began to fall and rise at gentler intervals.

            "...You are with us, Jack?"

            At last, the young man began to really wake. He rose wearily until he sat upright, staring with confusion at his surroundings.

            The English doctor was there, a minuscule gentleman who spoke scarcely a word of French, but his concoctions were powerful, and his bedside manner sweet, if silent. Behind him loomed the giant proprietor of the Moulin Rouge, his long silver beard tangled in a finger, and his brows drawn firmly together.

            And at the dancer's other side, one of the strapping stagehands, a tall Australian native with long, tribal tattoos on his tan arms, was delivering a furious look at the waking youth.

            "What happened?"

            Before the stagehand could even summon a breath to fire a mouthful of fury at the dancer, the proprietor's booming voice answered first.

            "Overdid it tonight, Jack," he said with a sudden cheer that rang false. "You are needing break I think."

            His tone gave the little doctor pause, eyes darting over the hefty Russian's jolly act with unconcealed concern. Though once the unsettled glance returned to his patient, the doctor's round face lit with a soft smile, and he patted the dancer's knee encouragingly.

            Jack looked back to his employer's forced amiability, to the wavering anger on the stagehand's stern face. And he began to remember.

            "...It didn't," he started, a look crossing his pale features much like a little lad caught with his fingers in cookie batter. "I wasn't on _stage_ when...?"

            The faces around him answered the unfinished question. He cringed.

            "...Whoops?"

            Jackson was a youth of many talents - although a palpable degree of common sense and rationality were not among them. What he did have, however, was an uncanny gift for making light of the heaviest matters, for seeing silliness and mischief where there should only have been ominous morbidity.

            As such, even the heightening symptoms of a prolonged sickness weren’t _nearly_ enough to knock childish flippancy from the young dancer's disposition.

            " _Idiot_!" Finally blurted the stagehand, emotion thickening his homeland lilt. "Are you _tryin'_ to give yer head a permanent dent??"

            The young man's eyes were rolling, as though the stagehand's lecture were a familiar and nigh _unbearable_ ordeal.

            "If you're not well enough to dance, _don't dance_!!" exclaimed the Australian, fists shaking as he raised them in a gesture of the sheerest frustration. " _Rest_! You're no damn use to _anyone_ if you're gonna keel right over after every other performance!"

            "It's not happened _that_ often!" protested Jack in a petulant manner. He slipped off the table, despite the little doctor's disapproving wave. "It was _one_ other time, and that _wasn't_ on stage—"

            "And where will it happen _next time_?!"

            "Oh come off it, Bunny," the dancer dismissed, unwilling to listen to what he didn't want to hear. A little shortness of breath between numbers and dizzy spells behind the curtains weren't worth such a to-do. Although the now two instances of actual collapses Jack wasn't exceptionally anxious to repeat...

            But he could no sooner give up dance, not even for a day, than a lark could give up song, or a root could give up earth. Performing was his addiction, a part of living almost inextricable to breathing. For laughter and cheers are warmth to poverty's cold, and constant motion is the inverse of stagnated existence.

            This wasn't the stage Jack would have chosen to play on. It wasn't the crowd to which he would have showcased his gifts. And if times were not hard as they were, then when on-hand cash was low, or when regular patrons entertained an exceptional _appreciation_ for youthful male company, Jack would not have been the first to volunteer his more intimate performances in the bedchambers of older men.

            But one adjusts. And an unshakable sense of humor eases the passage of a body's ownership from self to stranger. Rentable property has no business protesting, after all. So it might as well have itself a laugh wherever it can, if it can do nothing else.

            Without _dance_ , however, without the one means of a brief flight from a life not chosen, a life designated by hardship, there was no escaping the sharp sense of invisibility to a God who seemed to care not how he fared down on earth's unkind plane.

            So perhaps he pushed his body too hard, and perhaps he laughed the growing weakness off. But the overexertion wasn't all due purely to irresponsibility...

            Bunny, so Jack called the stagehand for his straggly whiskers and buckteeth, seemed about to let loose another tirade of exclamations, when the door burst open.

            "Has Doctor Sanderson been—" The voice of a lady stopped when its owner bustled into the room, catching sight of the patient now on his feet. "Oh thank goodness," she sighed, sweeping over to him in a complex streak of color. Bright strips of cloth dangled over her shoulders, pins and clips attached to a pair of green and purple paint-stained overalls. There were more vibrant-topped pins sticking out of her dark hair bun. "Are you alright?"

            Jack nodded and waved a hand. "Too much sherry before the show," he chuckled.

            The bizarrely garbed lady didn't appear the least convinced. Without warning, she reached over and pried open his mouth. He gave a good and startled squirm before she let him go. "Don't smell of sherry," she observed flatly. "More like laudanum and fibs, if you ask me."

            No wool could be pulled over the costume maker's opal eyes. The little woman was quick to overturn assumptions about the mental frailty of her sex, never forgetting a thing she saw or heard, and never breaching the promise to keep many a secret close.

            "Do you _mind_!" Jack complained after the fact. "Just a little virus, Tooth, alright?"

            Her hard, biting expression spoke to the nickname performers gave the tough head of costumes. She was a pale, pretty little thing, but the woman could chew uncooperative coworkers out to a pulp.

            "You see that it gets taken care of," she ordered. "Don't let North push you!"

            The dancer sighed. It seemed _everyone_ was against him! But care sometimes shows in accusations and sharp tones.

            In a corner, the doctor and the manager were speaking quietly in English. When the conversation appeared over, the tiny Englishman tipped his bowl cap, and took his leave.

            "He says give him call if any more fainting," explained the big man nonchalantly. "Is no big worry! Now, Jack..." He clapped his hands together, a slightly hesitant expression allowed momentarily to surface. "If you are feeling... is no rush, but if okay..."

            There was a blinking beat, then Jack recalled suddenly the conversation between himself and North before tonight's show. "Is he still here?" he asked urgently. "He didn't leave?!"

            "No no, Duke is here still... but if you are not well, maybe tomorrow...?"

            "No." Jack started straightening his loosened collar. "I can do it now."

            Patience too was not among Jack's gifts.

            "Where the devil are my shoes??"

            Understand, readers, there is always a hope in a lifestyle made from pleasing others. There is the possibility of escape - but it is solely dependent upon the patronage of another. Enough _generosity_ offered in exchange for certain _performances_ could change the game entirely for an impoverished dancer in a modern brothel.

            It could mean a _real_ stage, with a _real_ audience - not simply the lecherous attentions of drunken whore-seekers.

            It could mean being _seen_ , by _all_ of Paris, in a respectable theater with _gentlefolk_ and _families_.

            So when a man of title and fortune slips the manager word of _personal_ interest in pretty male dancers, pretty male dancers _leap_ to find a place by his side, and try desperately at this one shot for freedom.

            Jack was not a man of science. He was a man of superstition and belief. And so he would have called this night's happenings a work of higher design.

            Unlike the other young man he would soon encounter in a colossal misunderstanding, he would have indeed called the random mistakes that brought them together, "fate."

            Jack's mistake was not all his fault, as some would suppose after the fact. All North told him of the Duke whose eye he'd snagged was that he was in a balcony seat by himself, wearing a gold pin in his white cravat. Had more of him been described, the whole matter of finding him out might have proceeded very differently. The error that began Jack's involvement in another's story may never have been made.

            But the gold pin and the balcony were his only clues. And as it happened, the Duke was not the only nobleman wearing gold in his white cravat that night. Nor were the balcony booths exclusive to those who _should_ be in them. One of them contained a rather lost, awkward young gentleman who'd been ordered by his lady friend to simply wait in one of the vacant booths (though they'd made no reservation in this _expensive_ little nook) while she and his other companion sought out the very dancer who found him first.

            Perhaps the most remarkable of all the pieces that set this most perfect of mistakes in place, was that the exact moment when Jack looked up at the balcony seats with a pair of stage binoculars, the duke who awaited him was turned around to face a knock at his door. Where the duke hoped his dancer was about to enter, was in fact the actor Fishlegs, searching for the same dancer.

            So there was no gold on white to be spotted in the duke's booth.

            But there was a glint of gold in another balcony, attached to the white cravat of one lone, sheepish-looking youth.

            Had Jack not been quite so _eager_ , he may have double-checked in time to see that the description matched more than one man. But as afore stated, he was not a patient sort, especially not when the chance he'd awaited so long was finally here.

            And especially not when the man of interest was of a much younger, much gentler appearance than Jack's eyes had been prepared to fall on at that moment.

            He began to grin, setting aside the glasses. Really, his duke was quite a charming little thing, in a somewhat lanky, boyish way.

            Let the fun begin...


	4. Act I., Scene 3

            The first real meeting didn't go quite as either expected.

            Jack was prepared to play any role, accommodate to any subtle request. He had many talents indeed... and not all could be divulged in civilized company. All the stops were to be pulled for this royal-blooded ticket to a legitimate lifestyle. This performance had to be _exceptional_...

            But what he found behind the balcony seat door was like nothing he'd ever encountered with a private patron before.

            The door swept open, through which Jack was to make his memorable entrance. And in any other circumstance, it might have been an entry most graceful and captivating: cane balanced playfully over his shoulder, hat slightly to the side, the hint of a tousle in the white curls escaping the black felt rim, a smirk of just the right blend between naughty and nice, and a suggestive sparkle to his smiling eyes.

            Except the intended audience's attention was a little divided... by the crystal shards of a champagne glass he was futilely attempting to piece back together in quick, panicked gestures. The unannounced arrival made him jump, which, alas, made the shards scatter in a tinkling cascade of little debris. And for a few seconds, the young gentleman simply sat there, bent over the table with a small disaster at his fingertips, the most hopeless, puff-cheeked cringe frozen on his freckled face.

            As the entertainer paused partway through the door, requiring a moment to fully process the scene, the slim gentleman scrambled to his feet.

            "Ah, I-I was, it—I'm _so_ sorry, it was entirely my fault, this isn't even, I was just, it wasn't—"

            Then he looked up properly from spastically brushing stray crystal chips from his suit, and he stilled, the bumbly apology careening to as sudden a halt as its beginning. His mouth opened, the faintest "oh," leaving it.

"You're - you - hello... eheh."

            Jack's slightly blank expression shifted to a slow grin. He glanced back to the shard-littered table.

            "...It seems you and the glassware had some kind of... disagreement?" he suggested cheekily.

            There was a nervous, slightly high-pitched giggle. "Um, that, I can explain that... You see it... it struck first? I was forced to defend myself and..." He gestured to the crystal remains, a gangly motion lacking all condescension or pretense. "Well, as you can see... the enemy's been vanquished."

            "... _Pulverized_ , more like."

            A somewhat self-conscious snort disrupted the other youth's try at a dignified expression.

            The light burst of laughter in Jack's own throat was genuine. This already promised to be _infinitely_ more fun than he'd ever anticipated. All the gentlemen he'd known were so _dull_ , devoted to treating petty conversation as though it were of the utmost import, and desperate to avoid the semblance of social vulnerability at all costs.

_This_ was certainly new...

            Despite the glass wreckage, the two sat at the little table to proceed with a halfway civilized discussion - which still only barely resembled civility between the disheveled gentleman's social ineptitude, and the dancer's inability to hold back teasing remarks from such an endearingly candid target.

            "Hiccup," he repeated, somewhat dazed by the perfection of the fit between the name and its bearer.

            "...You _may_ be able to, um, _infer_ as to what its inspiration is..." he opened up his arms slightly, glancing down at himself with a sheepish little half-smile. "All _this_ may be a clue, if just a slight one..."

            The dancer followed the green-eyed glance, down to unbuttoned cuffs, and an off-center and somewhat rumpled fitting of the slightly baggy ensemble. Though Hiccup was no shorter than he, and may not have been much younger, the youth was perhaps a bit bonier. Certainly, he lacked an understanding of how to compliment his shape with his jacket, probably investing in the wrong size for better comfort or mobility.

            "Well, to be frank, I'm not sure a more befitting name _exists_ ," admitted the performer.

            Laughing dryly, the auburn-crowned gentleman let his eyes roll and replied, "Oh don't rush to deny it, by all means join in on the Hiccup-deprecation."

            Though Hiccup was faring a little better than his usual attempts at formal interaction, if only because his company seemed more _amused_ by his oddities than put-off by them, the student still faced doubts tripping up his confidence. And that last comment did not quite help to appease them, his response a little more cynical than he'd meant to sound. At least he'd refrained from adding, "since half the planet has already had a go at it." He was not always so deft at keeping conversation trivial, and had a bit of an unfortunate habit of airing dirty laundry in public, so to speak, at least where his family's less than stellar opinion of him was concerned.

            To the young man's surprise, the dancer—this _Jack_ , far handsomer up close than from a stage view, features more even and fair than ought to be _possible_ of a mortal man—shook his head with a never-ending glint of playfulness in his eyes.

            "No-no, it's perfection! Because see hiccups are, well, _unexpected_ , a little... _awkward_ and," Hiccup was softly giggling, trying to keep his embarrassment at the observation's accuracy from reddening him _too_ much like a radish. The albino across from him grinned wider, speaking louder over the giggles. "- _And_ ," he continued insistently, "and generally a bit on the small side, as far as a sound goes— _but_!" Jack cut in over the other man’s attempt to partly hide his mortified expression in a palm. "But they can be _extremely_ entertaining, usually much more so for others than the maker." Hiccup's palm dropped, and a half-hearted glare was aimed at Jack. This was absolutely true, people tended to find Hiccup's blundering vastly more guffaw-worthy than _he_ did... although typically the instances of outright laughter at his expense were far crueler than the present one.

            "And they can be _adorable_."

            Much to the dancer's satisfaction, the gentleman appeared to be completely unprepared for that punch line. His expression rapidly underwent a small sequence of changes. First there was surprise, deep-set eyes round and lips tucked together, shoulders lifting a bit in an instinctive attempt to seem smaller and unobtrusive. Then as realization that this was a _compliment_ seemed to hit, belated by his half-a-second's mild shock, a clipped little laugh awkwardly blurted, features trying to force themselves into something casual and not quite managing to pull it off. Finally, as it seemed to occur to him the next instant that his attempt wasn't entirely convincing, he simply glanced around himself in a fluster like a man seeking to abandon ship.

            As a general rule, anyone trying to _please_ another really oughtn't _laugh_ quite so much at him as Jack was cackling at Hiccup. If interrogated, he would have defended it as all part of a most calculated seduction, as part of his judgment that a degree of openness would be the faster way to this unusual gentleman's good graces than a careful show of manners and unwavering agreeability. This, however, wouldn't entirely be true. The truth, in fact, was that he wouldn't have even been _capable_ of subduing his rather uncouth laughter at the expressive youth if he'd _tried_.

            A bit on the spot, Hiccup made a swing for saving face with an abrupt topic change.

            "I - so, so I believe we should maybe talk business? Ah, that is, you _were_ told about—"

            "Yes," answered Jack before the other man could finish. His amusement diminished instantly, and though it was barely perceptible, a hint of disappointment replaced it.

            For a moment, he'd almost forgotten his purpose in being here... of course, sooner or later the patron was bound to remind him of his place. But it was a nice change to be allowed the pretense, just for a little while, of anything other than what this really was.

            "Our mutual friend informed me," elaborated the dancer smoothly. "Of your... 'business' with me."

            Naturally assuming the friend in question was Fishlegs or Astrid, the student only nodded, preparing himself for a task somewhat less daunting now that he'd met the man he was to persuade.

            "Well it's, if you have the time, I can just pitch it to you - it won't take long!"

            Jack blinked a bit. "... _Now_?" he clarified, mind far from plays and scripts. A white-gloved finger pointed to the balcony floor. " _Here_??"

            Hiccup blinked back. "Well, yes... unless you've no time...?" There didn't seem anything _wrong_ with their little booth, and he'd _thought_ the dancer indicated he had time to talk about the play...

            "Well _here_ may not be... the most _comfortable_ place to 'discuss business,’" Jack pointed out, throwing back what he thought was a euphemism. "I would suggest we move that 'discussion' to a _chamber_..."

            "Oh," Hiccup remarked bemusedly. "Alright? So um, when can we...?"

            The eagerness seemed a bit out of place for such a gawky character, but Jack didn't question it too far. He only offered a sly smirk. "I'll need only a moment," he assured in the silkiest tones. "May I ask something before I prepare for the... _talk_?"

            "...Yes?" Hiccup looked a bit confused by all the commotion over a simple _conversation_ , but he tried not to over think the customs of a Parisian night dancer.

            Jack leaned back slightly in his chair. "In the event... of gift exchanging," he began lowly, a mischievous brow quirking slightly. "Is your preference to _give_ the gift... or to _receive_ it?"

            There wasn't the slightest hope of Hiccup having any idea what the dancer was implying. So after a befuddled beat, he answered innocently.

            "Well... I suppose there are merits in both?"

            "Both?" repeated Jack with far more interest than seemed warranted, and Hiccup nodded slowly. "Very well, then which would you prefer from _me_ ," Jack specified. "Would you rather _I_ bestow _you_ with a 'gift'... or have you something to give _me_?"

            Sleek tones, suggestive looks, and leaning in a little closer, _still_ were not enough to get the message through to the inexperienced youth. He simply took the question literally.

            "Oh - oh I, I'm afraid I've not brought anything! Had I known it was customary to, to..."

            Jack chuckled fondly, supposing the answer to be an attempt at humor. "Well don't fret, then," he laughed, playing along. "I think... I may just have something to give _you_." The dancer stood. "Down the east hall, last chamber on the left. Drop by when you're ready, and I'll... let you have it."

            Green eyes were genuinely blank as they followed the dancer from his seat. "Well that's... that's most generous, I'm sure...?" Bit of an _odd_ custom, but it certainly seemed a rare kindness to offer presents to strangers...

            As for what this "present" -actually- consisted of, Hiccup was more than a little _unprepared_.


	5. Act I., Scene 4

            Jack answered his door barely a second after Hiccup's knock. The dancer smirked and leaned with a half-bare arm against the wall, free of his coat, hat and gloves. His shirt was partway unbuttoned, sleeves rolled casually to the elbows, unknotted cravat hanging loosely around his open collar.

            Without the hat to shroud his white locks, they fell over his brow almost wildly, with the slightly damp furl of physical exertion. Without the coat, every other shift of his torso revealed a hint of the tight, wiry muscle underneath the light cotton cloth. And without the gloves, there was no missing the strong, steady _grip_ implied in the coil of his pale fingers.

            He beckoned his guest in with a little nod of his head, and stepped aside for Hiccup. Once inside, the door was instantly shut behind him.

            It was a modest little apartment, adorned prettily but quite small, with a single desk by the door and a set of drawers. The most notable piece of furniture was the bed, queen-sized and lain over in what looked like silk.

            "U-um, I'm not sure I've much time left," Hiccup was mumbling, turned away from the dancer. He'd found himself a bit _preoccupied_ with the slight glint of sweat on his company's chest. "I have to get back to, to my associates soon, so we should just, just make this quick then."

            "You want it fast, huh?" rasped Jack's voice in his ear, suddenly close. There was hardly even a moment to react to the brush of his body behind Hiccup's, before the latter was sharply turned around.

            So fast the boy hadn't the chance to breathe a word in between, Hiccup lost his footing to a sudden grab from the young acrobat over the back of his thighs. And in a blurry crash of bodies that the gentleman's slipping mental processes couldn't follow, he found himself whisked up onto the desk surface, back almost to the wall, with Jack's warm, firm weight between his legs.

            The dancer's touch roamed hungrily up the boy's sides, clawing underneath his coat and leaning in against the thinner body. His face was pressed up close to Hiccup's neck, where his breath swept tingling warmth on speckled flesh.

            All Hiccup could feel at first was the utmost confusion and surprise, too much to either jerk away or to bask in the sensation. He only blinked through his mind's delay to register his surroundings.

            "Shall I be gentle?" breathed Jack against the cornered gentleman's skin. His hands were picking at the vest beneath Hiccup's jacket, fingers sneaking around the edges and lightly tugging the boy forward by them.

            The question began to partially wake Hiccup from his shocked stupor. "W-what?" he asked blankly. His arms were suspended slightly and his body still, as though he'd been frozen in place.

            Jack's touch moved lower again, and his lips ghosted against a stray freckle above the gentleman's collar. "Or would you like _force_?" His grip dug at Hiccup's hips, roughly jerking his pelvis closer to Jack's.

            An awkward splutter left the other youth's lips, viridian eyes going round as they possibly could. The dancer's palms started sliding inward across Hiccup's thighs, aiming to enter _between_ them. And Hiccup's mental grasp finally closed over what was happening.

            "Whaaa-wait, wait, wait, wait, wait!" he said at a frantic pace, pitch fluctuating almost as much as a song. The young gentleman drew back far as he could, making the dancer lift his head and stare questioningly at his patron. "Aaah, what, weren't we, this was _not_... what I understood..." Hiccup's hands pulsed and rotated by his face, echoing its frazzled state.

            Blue eyes looked nearly as confounded as the gentleman's tone. "Slower?" he guessed, trying to maintain a cool, unaffected air.

            "I - alright there's been some kind of - of—" Hiccup's fingers twiddled at the air and his mouth clenched lopsidedly in the pause. " _Miscommunication_ , I think..."

            "Is... _receiving_ not your preference?" Jack tried again, still not seeing what the hold up could be. "Or is it something else you'd like?"

            "That - um," half-choked the gentleman, beginning to finally recognize the significance of the gift metaphor (though his knowledge of male couplings was limited to its imagery in ancient Grecian pottery). "Well it's - I'm not quite, it's not what I - not that it isn't... isn't well!" His eyes bugged, trying to convey what his words were having difficulty expressing, a slight twinge of a dazed smile coming to their aid. "I'm, this is, this is... certainly - very _interesting_ , very, yes, hehehh..."

            The dancer couldn't keep a growing frown from his brow. Was Hiccup... _rejecting_ his advances? What had he _done_ , how had it gone so _wrong_...

            "That is, you're very - and I do quite, well, appreciate - but I'd rather, I'm more um," Hiccup strained to make himself understood, almost squinting in the effort. "I mean couldn't... couldn't I get to _know_ you first?"

            There was a beat wherein only sporadic breath and blood pumps could be heard.

            "...What?"

            "Well I, don't you think maybe, maybe we could start with a meal or a, a walk or a card game even, just a chance to um, talk or...?"

            In the onslaught of the most entirely unexpected turn of events, Hiccup nearly forgot about the play. He instead kept to the matter at hand, honest and artless as always. But however unlike a gentleman he may have been in appearance, and in his personality's poor fit into high society's convention, his bumbling honesty bespoke a nature more gentlemanly than he knew.

            For to him, it was a simple question of personal preference. To him, it might actually be _easier_ , he at least imagined, to physically engage with this man he already admired if he could only _understand_ him better. His interest quite simply lay far more in a person's abilities, his thoughts, his history, than in any strange body without the context of personality.

            It was merely a preference, if anything an abnormality in his own opinion.

            But it was a _wonder_ to the young man still lingering between his thighs. For this was something he'd never before faced.

            He had never, not once, met a man more interested in _him_ than in his physical composition alone, in his bedroom talents and carefree enthusiasm. No one cared to look beyond that, and seek out even a glimpse of who he really was. They saw what they wanted to see, whatever fantasy of their own they could impose on his accommodating disposition. He was not _allowed_ to show them _himself_ , to _be_ himself.

            But Hiccup didn't _want_ the veil of accommodation and unquestioning sexual energy. He wanted to see what was underneath that... to see _him_.

            A smile, a real one, absent of seductive guile or mischievous intent, slowly alit on Jack's face. And for a moment, _just_ a moment, he began to wonder. He began to wonder if what was meant to be a simple exchange of favors, a business arrangement, only necessary for as long as one required or was not yet tired of the other... could be something a little less... cold. Something a little kinder, a little more... well, _more_.

            Something that could _last_.

            For Jack, it wasn't first sight that tilled at a pliant corner of his heart, but a sequence of words. Haphazard, wandering, unpretty words, that still carried a meaning more lovely to him than any poem. So love's seed began sowing its way past the protective, ice-thick coating round a lonely soul.

            "As you wish," said the dancer with a bit of cheek. And he added, completely by chance, " _Monsieur le Duke_."

            Hiccup looked lost as ever. "Duke?" he repeated. "Oh I'm... I'm not a duke...?"

            After a second of pregnant silence, Jack launched back from the desk. " _What_?" he asked sharply.

            Just after they'd parted, a harsh knock came upon the door. It was at that moment, barely a breath after the knock, that the door slammed open.

            A voice, Russian-lilted and booming, was prattling just beyond the doorway as a man stepped inside. He was exceedingly tall, complexion ashen and hair blacker than his posh suit. His eyes were a goldish hazel, dimmer only than the little gold brooch on his cravat.

            Jack's mouth fell open.

            Behind the man pushed in the huge manager of the establishment, halting in the midst of, "Is small delay, Lord Pitchiner, but no more waiting, should be right- here..."

            Though the young men were no longer entwined, upon both was the disheveled appearance of _some_ physical act. Hiccup bashfully snapped his legs back together, utterly confused still and rapidly wilting under the hard, quietly livid stare the hazel-eyed man aimed at him. His brows were plucked, giving his frown a bizarre, alien menace.

            "...I am first made to wait," he began slowly in a rich, smooth voice, "for what I have been _assured_ is ready and _purchasable_. And now..." his eyes flashed between the two youths accusingly. "I find it has already been _rented out_ to another?"

            Hiccup tried to understand what this man's complaint was, and why he kept turning his piercing gaze on _Jack_ whenever he spoke of this _object_ he was trying to purchase...

            "Is - is explainable!" blurted the manager, looking beseechingly at Jack. But the dancer was momentarily at a loss, seeing no way out of this horrific blunder.

            Until a voice piped from the hallway. "Sir, sir if we may have a moment, _just_ a moment!" And with amazing timing, in popped Fishlegs, followed closely by Astrid. They'd been trekking North for some while now, trying to catch his attention since Jack was not to be found. "Oh, Hiccup!" the actor chirped, blissfully unaware of the tension in the room, and unheeding of just how unbidden and unwelcome his intervention was. "Did you tell him about the play?"

            Eyes turned to Hiccup. "The... the play," he mumbled back nervously. Then he glanced around and explained quite honestly, "I was just trying to tell him about the _play_..."

            The Duke's hooked nose shriveled incredulously. "Play," he echoed in obvious disbelief. It seemed clear to him, it was a _different_ kind of "play" at work here...

            But North gave an enthusiastic clap on Duke Pitchiner's back (to the lord's clear disdain), guffawing loudly. "Of course, is play!" he laughed, as though all were suddenly clear. And the manager of the flashiest, boldest, most _wondrous_ entertainment in Paris began an expertly zealous performance. "I am forgetting, is grand show at year end!"

            In a room nearly filled with one kind of performer or another, the small show of _pitching_ to the Duke a grander scale show, of throwing a magnificent excuse over an incriminating scenario that could lose a potential investor, all quickly became an ensemble effort. Jack drew enough hope from North's flippant confidence to play along, and though the actors weren't quite aware of all the implications of the scene before them, Astrid at least recognized where the power in the room rested, where the only chance to put on their show really lay. And so long as it was a man of actual _import_ to impress, damned if she was letting the blundering _Hiccup_ have the only say.

            "It will be epic!" promised North gaudily, throwing out his massive arms.

            "Heroic!" added the blonde actress with equal grit, if not perhaps too _much_.

            And as Fishlegs was ever one to follow suit, he offered his squeaky contribution of, "Poignant!"

            Just as the Duke was beginning to look slightly overwhelmed by the overly energetic beseechers of his attention in this quite little room, Jack recovered his mischievous grin and the playful gleam of his eyes. " _Fun_ ," he giggled in addition, trying for the _real_ Duke's eye with a subtle suggestion in his stance, in the tilt of his head and the turn of his voice.

            Fortunately, it seemed the coyness in his handsome features was just enough to edge off the rising contempt in Pitchiner's expression.

            "With your endorsement," North said loudly, as though no room for denial existed, "It will be biggest production in Paris!"

            Releasing a long-suffering sigh through his thin nostrils, the Duke asked impatiently, "And what would this _show_ be about?"

            Following a brief, plastered-smile pause, North bellowed, "Is - is love story, of course!" It seemed an only natural subject material, high in demand and universally appealing.

            "And an adventure story!" supplemented Astrid insistently.

            North, quick to run with a new idea, whipped towards the actress and pointed dramatically. "Swashbuckling adventure!" he agreed.

            "In a gothic setting!" provided Fishlegs eagerly.

            "A setting most mysterious!" North nigh shouted.

            "It'll have _everything_ ," Jack assured, a good deal less slick than usual, but still pulling off a boyish kind of appeal - it frayed only a little at the ends with high-strung energy.

            "All the classic elements!" Fishlegs said giddily. "Tricksters and rogues and princesses and—"

            "And villains!" Astrid cut off the beginning of a ramble, picking up her skirts and stepping up on the desk, almost kicking Hiccup in the process. She lifted a candlestick from the bureau beside it and swung it up like a weapon.

            North overturned a stool and staged an attack on the lady, which she parried so vigorously the candles nearly snapped in two.

            While they play fought, complete with grunts and war-cries, Fishlegs listed on, "And a knight, and a witch, and a secret romance, and a—"

            Jack's efforts were the first to subside, watching Pitch's eyes shift from the very barest interest to a supreme _lack_ thereof. His unenthused silence and deadpan expression eventually caught the attention of all, bringing them to a halt.

            "...You're expecting me to invest," said the Duke slowly, "in another predictable, hackneyed, superficial _love_ story?" The man's eyes fell half-closed in pure disinterest. "With _princesses_?" he scoffed. "And what else, dreams and hope and the healing power of companionship? Is there really a need for _more_ of that trite, _simplistic_ fantasy?"

            The room inhabitants fell silent, looking somewhat defeated. All were doing their best to sell a story to this patron, offering their fullest zeal. But the collective performance was failing to impress.

            If a genial, enthusiastic presentation of the most basic appeal wouldn't work, then the performers couldn't guess what _would_...

            But not _all_ of them were performers.

            One among them was a decidedly poor pretender, clumsy and inept at conveying whatever he did not actually _feel_ himself. However, that same one among them was an analyst of human experience, a critical observer of culture, and a scientific _strategist_.

            Instead of instantly categorizing a man's taste by majority opinion, he tried another angle, one he identified with himself well enough to approach without the need for pretense.

            "It's _satire_ ," he blurted in the silence.

            Every face in the room turned.

            "It's - it's _supposed_ to have the um, the _appearance_ of convention!" he explained somewhat inarticulately. "That's the _point_. So that it can _dismantle_ those, those preconceptions!"

            The performers looked a bit lost, as subtlety and social commentary were far from their specialties. But the _Duke_ , _his_ attention seemed to have finally perked.

            "...Satire?" he asked mildly, vague curiosity in the almost invisible furrow of his brow. The cynical Duke was clearly nonplussed with traditional tales, with stories that condensed humanity into black and white codes of morality, without any gray in between. "And this _dismantling_ will be accomplished how, exactly?"

            "Well... well the typical tropes of a love story will all be, be there but slightly _off_ ," continued Hiccup, turning in his seat to face the Duke better. "They'll be _inverted_ , or even contrast completely with the norm!"

            "How so?"

            Beginning to get caught in a train of creative thought, Hiccup started to rant. "The one you think will be the hero, the, the big, strapping bloke with a strong face - he'll turn out to be one of the rude mechanics - er, one of the _fools_ of the story," he clarified after letting the literary term slip. "And in fact, the _real_ hero is actually – well he's a - a _beast_..."

            "A _what_?" North asked, breaking character and revealing cluelessness. Astrid's eyes rolled, Hiccup's story having arrived at the part she didn't 'understand'.

            "What... ‘beast’?" inquired the Duke.

            Hiccup hadn't exactly decided on that yet... so he selected something quite at random.

            "A - a, an ogre!" He ignored the steadily more baffled looks he was getting, encouraged by the slow-growing intrigue in the investor's face. "The exact type of creature you would expect to play the villain! And it's _he_ who saves the princess, _not_ a king or a knight!

            "Because the point is, see it all comes down to this one theme, that not everything is what it _appears_ to be. That, that appearances and expectations needn’t _define_ you."

            There was the slightest shift among the listeners, the beginnings of comprehension in their faces as to the odd playwright's intentions. Even Astrid looked a bit curious at least. And Jack's attention, kept even through all the talk largely on the Duke, started to slip from him to the green-eyed gentleman, just as Hiccup turned his way. And their eyes met.

            The quiet didn't last long. A little huff of a chuckle left the Duke, a smirk parting the ever-dubious look he wore. "...Interesting," he commented, the closest to a compliment he'd yet come in the theatrical vying for his approval. "And if the ogre is not the villain... then who is?"

            "Well there's... there's no _villain_ , exactly - nobody's that um... one-dimensionally _bad_ , just people on different sides of a conflict..."

            Something in that one little phrase must have struck the Duke, because he abruptly turned to the proprietor. "I will discuss the terms with you of my monetary involvement in this _production_... but know there will be..." he glanced at Jack, whose own glance had just barely scraped away from Hiccup. " _Conditions_..."

            Had Jack really the chance to assess _this_ gentleman's tastes, he would have chosen to present a much _naughtier_ image to him. But as he was forced to simply throw on whatever appeal he could on such short and strained notice, he instead came across as rather... _innocent_ , rather boyishly coquettish. Now, it was true that the Duke's general preference was for a more _vulgar_ bedmate, but that would only have strung him in for the short-term, for a little brief entertainment before the dancer was simply dropped soon as the regal became bored. Jack hadn't a clue of it, but his makeshift air of an almost _childish_ , subtly _sweeter_ seduction than he would have planned for, turned out to be a hook for the Duke far deeper than mere voluptuousness.

            For the appearance of guileless innocence, as the giggly Little Flower shows us, can be among the most potent routes to a dark libido.

            And like an infection, the very beginnings of _obsession_ began its slow, slippery crawl over the new patron of the Moulin Rouge...


	6. Act I., Scene 5

            The troupe and their young writer were invited to stay in a few spare rooms in the building. Hiccup was even offered a typewriter, with the order to have a draft ready by the first rehearsal - a few days' time at most.

            So he wrote, long and hard by firelight. It was the darkest hours of the next day before his wrung-out senses demanded rest, and he sought a moment of it in the brisk night from his room's little balcony.

            Cool wind bathed the playwright's stress-heated skin. He breathed the cold in, trying to reawaken tired, dulled nerves. And as he turned his gaze over the moonlit vision of Paris, window lights blinking like echoes of the stars above, Hiccup's eyes fell to his right, to the row of balconies beside his.

            Two balconies over, there was another seeking the night's company.

            Perched upon the thin metal ledge, one leg dangling from the railing, the other tucked close to his chest, was Jack. A cigarette in his hands, the dancer sat there in silence, staring up at the full moon with a solemn look in his pale eyes.

            Hiccup watched as the dim light caught in the smoke, surrounding Jack in an ethereal haze. His fingers lost their grip a bit at the balcony railing. The Swede had some understanding now of what had happened in the dancer's bedchamber...

            "Duke's probably come here just to find a plaything," Astrid had speculated hours earlier after her third celebratory drink, its influence rendering her much more talkative. Though the bubbly chatter still made her no less frightening. "Bought himself a bigger toy than he meant for, eh??" She'd swaggered drunkenly across their dining table, knocking glasses in her way aside and cackling at every spill. "'Stead of one little can-can dancer, this royal arsehole's got a _whole production_ in his bed!!" Her arms flew out while her comrades rang out with inebriated cheers.

            Finally, the meaning of Jack's forwardness and of Lord Pitchiner's anger had dawned on the oblivious young gentleman.

             And now that he knew, it was this in his mind while the writer looked on at the dancer's pensive, almost melancholy expression, so different from the showman's smile he always seemed to wear.

            Without an audience to pretend for, the youth only sucked in at the end of his cigarette, and blew out moody smoke clouds over his silvery head. A cough interrupted the wafting gray, sharply turning into a brief fit of small, choking sounds, before they settled again.

            All Hiccup could think was how very lonely he looked...

            With that thought, the boy's hold on his railing clenched - and a metallic squeak struck through the quiet.

            The dancer's eyes turned.

            The writer's eyes popped.

            Hiccup relinquished the railing as though it were scalding to his touch, clearing his throat and swinging his arms. "Um. Hello again..."

            For a brief spell, Jack almost seemed to glare. But then a small, terse smile found his lips. "Hello yourself," he said back, only just loud enough to carry over the breeze.

            After all, it wasn't fair to the boy to blame him for Jack's own error... or for stirring hopes that he should have known were too good to ever be.

            "I um... it's lovely out here, isn't it? It's very, very uh... _outdoorsy_... well, what else _would_ it be - but that can be nice sometimes! Is all... that I meant... yes..."

            Hiccup was letting his hands do half the talking as usual, failing even more than before at coherency in his fatigue.

            With another drag from the cigarette, the dancer replied, "You've certainly a _unique_ way with words, haven't you?"

            The other young man chuckled skittishly, running a hand over the back of his head. "Well... words aren't exactly the easiest to form when - when um, when a bit of an _interesting_ history exists between speaker and listener..." Hiccup thought a moment in the silence following his comment, and abruptly realized how inappropriate Jack likely thought it to bring _that_ up! "That is—! I know it wasn't - I'm not saying - it's all done with now so - I didn't mean to, to, to bring up..."

            Jack's airy laughter cut him off. "No, you've the right. It happened and no amount of silence will undo it. Better to face it head on than ignore it, don't you think?"

            The playwright blinked, wearing a small frown and fiddling with his fingers. "I'm not sure... maybe - maybe something in between?" he tried, pressing his hands almost together, but leaving a little space. "It's just, the head-on part - that might be a little difficult to do, since thinking gets rather..." his knuckles turned over slowly. "It's a little hard to think halfway rationally with, with _that_ on the mind."

            Unable to stop himself, Jack grinned, turning so that both legs swung from his ledge, and teased, "It was that good?"

            Flustered blinking subsided to an accusatory pointing. "See _that_ , that right there helps _nothing_ , sir!" Hiccup complained. "That's, I think that's _quite_ enough of that!"

            Jack disagreed, despite all reason indicating otherwise. The playful youth had a bad habit of pushing the envelope.

            "I'm trying to imagine the state you'd be in now," he said, leaning back a little and hooking his weight from seat to knees, swaying slightly. "If you'd not even _stopped_ me."

            Hiccup's surprise was less decked in fluster this time, to the dancer's disappointment. "Well that... wouldn't have happened," he said, almost too quiet to be heard from the other balcony. "I, see I'm not really... the _sort_ to just... not that _you_ are!"

            The dancer raised a brow, angling forward again. "I _am_ the 'sort,' Hiccup," said Jack bluntly. "In point of fact..."

            "W-well... I just meant... be that as it _may_ ," the writer bumbled. "It's not - not as though I think _less_ of you for it."

            The slight swing in the dancer's dangling feet stopped.

            It had been obvious to Jack why Hiccup had treated him so differently, once the truth was made plain. Hiccup hadn't _known_ about Jack's unsavory part-time work. So of course he'd shown the same respect he would give any _natural_ , God-fearing human being...

            Now he... wasn't quite _sure_ what the writer's game was.

            "Might um, might I ask a question?"

            Jack nodded silently.

            "It, well it may sound a bit silly but... what would _you_ say love is?"

            There could be no question more surprising for the dancer, or more oddly unsettling.

            "I'm conducting a study," the boy explained hurriedly at Jack's befuddled expression. "I've been talking to about everyone and, and trying to get as much input as possible so I just, I wanted your opinion..."

            A little humorless laugh bobbed in Jack's throat. "’Course you did," he mumbled, bringing his cigarette back to his lips.

            It was beginning to really _cut_ , this undeniable affinity growing in him for a man who actually seemed to _care_ what he _thought_... naturally, the man happened to be no more than a modest playwright, while _he_ was now another man's claim.

            "Couldn't tell you about that, really," Jack said with a little shrug. "Not something that applies to me."

            "...Oh," replied Hiccup. "Well, but, so but in an _abstract_ sense...?"

            "I wouldn't know," Jack clarified more firmly.

            "What about family, though?" prodded Hiccup. "Isn't that a kind of love, or—"

            "Why are you so desperate for a rent boy's opinion?"

            The sudden, biting question surprised Hiccup into hushing up. At least momentarily.

            "W-well... if you'd rather not share it... then, then that's just as well."

            Hiccup's somewhat dejected expression was almost enough to cool the abrupt flash of temper in the other man. The writer started to talk again, but stopped himself - then did so _again_.

            "...It's just that—"

            The dancer groaned, a little good humor pushing through his moodiness. That persistent little bugger wouldn't let it _go_.

            "It's... _complicated_ ," Jack finally answered. "That's what I think."

            "...What, love?" Hiccup chuckled. "I think a few poets would agree... not in so many words, perhaps."

            Jack gave a wan smile. "I think a roof over your head and food on the table comes first..."

            "And... and so certain..." Hiccup struggled a moment. "Certain _acts_... in... between the sheets, so to speak – are just as well without involving love?"

            "...Can't say I would know otherwise," the dancer admitted briskly. "But it's not _necessary_ , anyhow."

            Hiccup looked pensive. "So... if you've never um, never been 'in love'... do you think that kind of love even _exists_?"

            With another shrug, Jack answered, "Don't see why not."

            "But you've never... you would _believe_ in something you've never...?"

            A slight grin revealed pearly white teeth. "That's how it works, isn't it?" Jack pointed out. "Don't need to see or feel something to believe it exists."

            "...I suppose," agreed Hiccup musingly. "Not a very _scientific_ approach, but that's belief for you..."

            "Eh, sometimes it's more about _feeling_ than _knowing_."

            It had always been this way for the performer, from the first pattern of steps he'd ever taken as a small child that could be called a dance. In the making of his art, there had been hard practice and intense observation, yes. But moreover, there was also the _release_ of thought to _instinct_ , of questioning and monitoring to simple _being_ , and _trusting_. What really brought a dazzling _shine_ to his craft was how _free_ , how _open_ and _expressive_ his motion could be - because he didn't _try_ to execute calculated moves, he only let all critical doubt go, and _felt_ every step.

            The playwright only hummed in answer. Then he thought a moment, and started to speak again in a quieter tone.

            "...I've never um. Me either. The love... thing."

            Jack eyed him. "You've never the love thing?" he repeated playfully, to the other youth's chagrin. "Are you looking to change that?"

            "Well I..." The boy lifted his shoulders. "Perhaps - for _science_..."

            "And what about for _you_?" Jack laughed.

            Hiccup wet his lips, brow furrowing as he considered it. "I just... I'd like to _know_ ," he said. The medical student had always been more for demonstration than supposition alone. "There's so much I still don't know..."

            It is sometimes supposed that, of all men, the Scientist is the most devoid of passion and creativity, that the mind most suited to research and analysis has no room left for artistic inclination. But the endeavor to _learn_ , and to assemble new ideas, is the very same prospect of the Adventurer, the Inventor, and indeed, the Artist. While the Scientist seeks out practical truths, the Artist seeks out _intangible_ truths. Science looks outward, art looks inward, and it is only this inversion that separates them.

            They are otherwise all but the _same_.

            Hiccup's desire to _know_ bloomed from the same root as Jack's desire to _feel_. It was the impassioned pursuit of _philosophical_ desire that they were ever led by...

            And it was leading them both, with growing speed and intensity, towards _one another_.

            "I haven't even..." Hiccup's face was sheepish when he brushed at his bangs, eyes averted. "That, the _incident_ in, in your room... was about as close to, um... that sort of _interaction_... as I've ever... well."

            Jack's brows rose. " _Ever_?" he echoed.

            The other boy flung out his hands aimlessly. "Ever," repeated Hiccup. "It's... it's not really _easy_ for me to... and though nothing was going to _happen_... oh and I know—I know it's not still ah, on the table or anything, I'm not, I don't mean to, um, protest that or, or... only, well I... I have to admit..." Hiccup tilted his head this way and that, another awkward quirk that was becoming evermore endearing to the onlooker two balconies over from him. "It was... probably the first time... I could at least _see_ it happening? I mean, _eventually_ \- maybe - wasn't _sure_ or anything, I just looked somewhat forward—and well now that's not really, really an option to explore _so_ I'll just, I'll um... I should probably not be talking... anymore..."

            There was quiet.

            Jack didn't take his eyes off the other youth, not for a second. A thought was taking hold of him, a completely mad, _wild_ thought that jeopardized the one thing he'd waited so long for.

            But he was so _tired_ of hiding behind the projection of another's fantasy, of carrying out a long and lonesome existence he'd never really chosen for himself, and of letting every chance to really _live_ again slip by him.

            For _once_... he wanted to _snatch_ that chance.

            Just _once_ , even for a _day_ , an _hour_ , a _minute_ \- why couldn't he choose something for _himself_?

            The thought, dangerous though it was, brought a surge of all that he was secretly afraid of losing, all the childlike silliness he relied upon just to _survive_ another day here. It all grew a little stronger, just with a thought, and began to invigorate his lately flickering spirits.

            He tossed the cigarette, and stood on the rattly railing.

            "...Ah, is that really—"

            The balconies weren't so far apart from one another. Why, it wasn't hard at all to take a little leap—

            " _Gyaaah_! What are you _doing_ , do you realize how _high up_ we—"

            The first leap towards someplace new is never so hard as it seems.

            "No, don't-don't-don't—ooooh Good Holy _God_ , alright you are going to get yourself _killed_ , and it's going to leave a mental scar I am never going to be rid of—"

            Hiccup was up close to the rail when Jack landed on the balcony just beside his, managing his panic with shrill sarcasm.

            "So I hope you're greatly _pleased_ with yourself, you _idiotic_ , self-centered—"

            The boy was forced to propel himself backwards, until he hit the opposite railing, while Jack leapt down right into the very same _breathing space_ as he.

            They were very _little_ balconies, only wide as their narrow doorways, and really only long enough for a single body to inhabit comfortably.

            "...Dolt," Hiccup finished belatedly. His hands clutched the rail behind him, upper back pressed out slightly from the metal.

            "Evening," greeted the invader cheekily, and slightly out of breath.

            " _Morning_ ," corrected the invaded dryly, also strangely a little short of breath.

            Jack's grin was bright even in the dark. "I think," he said sneakily, "we should get a drink."

            "... _Now_??"

            "Right now," Jack laughed, a funny kind of giddiness overtaking him. " _Or_ a meal... or a _walk_ or a _card game_ , even."

            There was no missing the allusion in his over-enthused tone to Hiccup's own earlier, awkward offer of courtship. The playwright gawped at Jack like a madman had taken his place.

            "Are you—you _can't_ mean..." But he did. "But, but you and, but the _Duke_ , wouldn't, isn't that..."

            "No one has to know," half-whispered the other man, thrilled rather than duly cautious.

            Hiccup stared at a sideways angle... and started shaking his head. "Ooooh no," he protested. "No, no, _no_ , that is a _terrible_ idea."

            "Hiccup."

            The dancer's hands reached around and behind the writer for his. What little space there was between them was almost closed, pulses and breaths and warmth all brushing. Jack's cold fingers slipped around Hiccup's tight knuckles.

            " _Come on_ ," quietly bade the paler youth, the same whispery excitement in the airy lilt of his voice, the eager quirk of his lips, and the happy squint of his eyes, as in a small schoolboy convincing his classmate to play hooky with him. "Let's give it a go..."

            "Give _what_ a go?" Hiccup stubbornly demanded to know - as though he weren't himself in the midst of a new and confusing _torrent_ of sensations.

            One of Jack's arms snuck under Hiccup's and around his waist, pulling him close. His other brought a palm to the flushing side of a freckly face. " _This_ ," he said softly. His hold tightened subtly with the word, gaze wandering over all the other boy's face, eyes to cheek, chin to brow, nose to lips...

            Hiccup could hear his own pulse clear as a stomping boot. His limbs found they had no will to push out of Jack's touch. It wasn't carnal or invasive as the last was, but slow, gentle, demanding nothing but his nearness.

            For the first time, it wasn't just another performance. It was a _choice_... a _real touch_ , driven only by the budding feeling starting to engulf Jack's center.

            "We don't have to name it," the dancer whispered to the playwright. Their mouths weren't so very far apart. "It doesn't _have_ to be _complicated_ , we can just..." His grasp on the youth's face took a firmer hold against the back of his neck, between tufts of auburn. The dancer's eyes were straying more and more to Hiccup's lips. "Just... _be_..."

            The slighter man drew a breath. "...I like names though," he mentioned, somewhat off-topic. The utterly _literal_ comment got a light laugh out of Jack, one Hiccup could feel in warmth on his face, in the smell of tobacco and the slight rumble from the chest against his. "Labels are... they're quite good for... categorizing data, you know..."

            Grin just a little wider on one side, Jack tipped his head until their noses bumped gently, foreheads almost aligned, gazes beginning to drop, and to close.

            "Can I show you something?"

            The murmur was met with a tiny, "...Okay."

            And the young scientist's first kiss was softly stolen by the cabaret dancer. And his second... and third and fourth and the numbers climbed on until gold peeked over the Parisian skyline.

            Between the light pressing of lips, never heavier than a firm brush, there was kiss-drunk talk and shifting squeezes, mostly all nonsense and aimless play. It lasted all through the dark and the cold, warmth found in their enwrapped bodies, light found in each other's eyes.

            Of course, it wasn't more than a puppyish, mutual infatuation – and neither believed it to be anything other than that.

            But like many things, love comes in acts. And this was only one small, still early scene in an entire saga of emotions.

            This was a pretty fall of flurries before the blizzard.


End file.
